Goodbye Mr. Summers!
by Hemlock
Summary: We all see Scott left the team; now what of the rest of them? This is two years after Scott left and virtually cut off every sort of means of communication.
1. Taking Leave

_Here it is, every Scott-bashing reader/author wetdream! Read on to find out!_

_A/N: I am NOT a Scott-basher, though the thought sometimes could be a turn-on... me bashing him while he licks at my leather boots... yum._

Scott stepped inside the sterile medical room. Everything in the room reflected one person: Hank. There was a blue mug sitting dangerously at the edge of a table; there was a strange-looking material that looked suspiciously like badly shaped clay that lay upon a table, also in blue; the cork board was also blue; a blue computer mouse and the juicy-looking aquamarine Apple.

He would have laughed at these and joked with him; _what, Hank, are you colour fetishist or what?_ Or something like that. It would have been a great way to make himself at least feel better about himself, and probably Hank would think better of him, like, at least this man has a sense of humour, or something like that.

Scott sighed as he stood at the doorframe, looking in, not willing to enter. Or was he waiting for someone to invite him in? Was it something like, hey, Scott, come in, it's okay, you did nothing wrong, you're the leader, you did what you have to do, we all understand.

Hank looked up from a spread of raw flesh, one dainty and very sharp needle poised in one hand, the other hand at the edge of the wound. He eyed Scott with a less-than-grateful stare and went on stitching the wound.

"Slow down, man," Scott heard Logan's voice, pain barely restrained in it. Inwardly he winced; even Logan felt pain. Hank mumbled an apology and started on his task again, this time more carefully. "Jubilee," Scott heard Hank called out. There was a scraping sound from behind Hank and not long after that Jubilee stood behind him.

Scott took a deep, shocked breath. Jubilee's head was covered with bandages, one eye was also covered. Her forehead seemed to have been soaked in blood that had long dried, and the disconcerting smell of dried blood and crude iodine assaulted his nose. She lowered her head with some difficulty; she had a crutch under her right arm and when she went off to do whatever Hank told her to she was limping like a cat with a broken leg.

He wanted to walk out of here, but that would make him look even more the guilty party. Steeling himself against whatever that would come he took two steps forward… and collided with Remy on the shoulder.

The tall Cajun - indeed, a few inches taller than he was - stared down at him with an irritated glance. They were so close to each other that Scott had the chance to scrutinize a very bad and very large scratch that ran down from the left side of his cheek to the underside of his jaw. His nose had stopped bleeding, but the scratch had been left untended, and Scott noted, with both repulsion and consideration, that some of its area had begun to show signs of infection.

"Remy - " Scott began, pointing at his cheek.

"Git outta way, sir," Remy said with barely restrained anger as he slapped Scott's hand, the last word said with a scornful sneer. "Gambit's busy."

"You should do something -"

Remy held up one hand quickly, threateningly. Scott started to say something again but suddenly a card appeared between them and Scott saw Remy's eyes became tiny red slits.

"I maybe hurt, _monsieur_, _mais oui_ I still can kill," Remy said as the card glowed red. "So git outta way."

With that Scott let down his hands to his sides and Remy nodded sternly and moved on, putting away the card in his pocket as the red glow faded. Scott wiped his palm over his mouth in an effort to steady himself. He made his way slowly through the maze of the tables and medical trolleys.

Someone groaned. He looked about, his searching eyes met a crouching figure with white hair. Ororo, Scott thought. She seemed to be holding her head, and there was blood in between those hands…

Scott quickly dove toward her and brought her to standing position. "Ororo, what's the matter?"

"My wound… reopens…" was all she could manage.

"I'll get a bandage," Scott said, looking at her. Truth be told, he could not think of leaving Ororo's side, with her head literally pouring blood forth like some damned river. He tried to cover the wound and only then he realised that the wound was not only open, it was deep, more like a gash on her head.

"Oh my God," Scott said, pulling away his hand, but never letting go of Ororo's waist. Suddenly the white-haired woman collapsed.

Scott panicked. "Ororo!"

Behind him Remy's voice boomed. "What's de matter wit' you?!" Pushing Scott roughly off Ororo and onto the floor he quickly gathered the swooned woman in his arms while one hand covered the wound on her head. "I let her sit down dere so dat no blood rush's down! Now look what you've done!" Remy was never this furious, Scott thought, his hands behind him the only means of support right now. "Can you fix dis? Huh!? HUH!?"

Behind him he heard Hank's voice. "What's the commotion here about?"

"Dat fool of a leader made Ororo stand up while you ordered her to sit down t'avoid de blood loss," Remy said, almost screaming with madness. "Now she's _défailli_!"

Hank stared at Scott with the same look he gave him earlier, then motioned at Remy. "Take her to the Special Care bed; Emma will help you there." To Scott he said, "Get out."

"Hank…"

"Get out."

"But I have no idea - "

"Get out, get out, get OUT!"

Scott decided that he was not about to be reprimanded by some blue-furred doctor. He stood up and looked a Hank straight in the eye. "Hank. For the last time I know my mistakes. I accept them. I own them! Hell, even the greatest of leaders make mistakes! Why are you all so mad at me!?"

Hank regarded him coldly. Then he cracked his knuckles noisily. "Let's see. First, you acted on you source information. Second, you made us go as **you**, not **us**, had agreed. Third, it turned out that your source had been bribed by the F.O.H. to lead us into an anti-mutant field, resulting in loss of abilities and therefore giving those damnable F.O.H. the best opportunity to bash our arses! Not to mention our pride and then some. Finally, Scott, even though things did not look good for us, you had the gall to tell us not to fall back, to defend ourselves, to show to those 'stupid, incorrigible humans' who's better than who. Now, tell me, Scott; is there any reason, **at all**, for us NOT to be angry at you?"

Scott fell silent. He never guessed that his informant, who supplied good facts and reliable strategies was one of the F.O.H. himself. Everything that informant told him was correct. Until last night.

He could still recall the way his own heart sank as he saw the blue domed light spread over them. In that chaos he commanded them to keep on fighting no matter what happened. He had wanted to prove to those damned humans that even though they lost their powers they could still fight, and without the presence of their powers he even thought that the F.O.H. would even fight fairly. Maybe they would see that when the mutants are stripped off their powers, the mutants are still human, after all.

But it was not so. A hunter who had his prey trapped where it suits him the most and hurts the prey the most would never, ever, lose this chance to exploit this opportunity. And the X-Men were treated like exactly what they should have been in the F.O.H.'s eyes.

_Freaks_.

Scott sank boneless onto the floor. His knees hit the floor with a loud cracking sound but he did not feel the pain that shot upward to his head. He did not notice Hank hobbling away from him, leaving him amidst the cold medical trolley and to his own feelings.

I did not ask to become a leader, he thought, staring at emptiness. I never wanted to a mutant. I hated myself being a leader, doing things I should do and the rest hates me for it, doing things we shouldn't, and the rest question my leadership; making sound choices but against their liking, trying to be what they wanted but in the end left unappreciated. Is there a use, at all? Is there a use?

There is a use.

Scott jerked up his head around. That was not his voice of thought! He looked around again and saw someone stood behind him, albeit with difficulties. He noted that person had a crutch and a bandaged right arm. "Jubilee?" he asked.

"No," she said as her face came to view. Scott looked in wonder as Jean stood to his right. "It's me."

Scott recalled how she valiantly pulled the unconscious members away from the frantic F.O.H. mob as she herself was beaten repeatedly. Her badly bruised face now hid most of her beauty, but her eyes were enough to let him know that she still was.

"Don't you get enough of snooping around people's head?" he asked, irritated, recalling her powers. He struggled to stand and was about to walk away from her. "I don't need another anger-vent from any of you anymore."

"What do you mean by that?" she asked, moving closer to him even as he walked away.

"I quit. You can find somebody else to lead this team. I'm not up to it." He stopped and stared at his feet. "In fact I'm not up to anything. Don't depend on me. I hate people doing that and then when I do let them depend on me I end up disappointing them."

"Who's saying about us depending on you?"

"Isn't being a leader all that?"

Jean chuckled; Scott heard true mirth in her chuckle, no tension, no anger. He wondered. "Scott," she said, standing beside him with her good arm on his shoulder. "Nobody is depending on you. Don't you remember what the professor always tells us? We all are a team. A team cooperates. Every member of a team becomes the parts that move the whole machinery. A leader makes sure that everything runs smoothly. That way, you are part of the team itself."

"In the end the team still have to depend on the leader," Scott reasoned.

Jean scoffed, but still smiling. She shook her head. "Scott, you're not getting the gist of it. A leader is needed to ensure the whole team moves smoothly. In the end, everybody becomes both the leader and the team player. No one person can manage all the works; everybody has their own parts and pieces. Everybody has their strength and weakness, advantages and disadvantages."

Scott shook his head angrily. He faced her. "What does this have to do with me wanting to quit? Nothing, I think!"

Jean shook her head. "I've been watching your progress, if you want to trust me. And I noticed that you did it quite good. In fact rather excellent. One thing was lacking, though. You pushed everyone to their limits until there was no room for their disadvantages. You expect everyone to be perfectly capable of whatever they are good in, each time, every time. Well, it's time you realise that they cannot."

"Jean, weakness cannot help us survive!"

"And so does intolerance! What's worse, intolerance between us! Between the team players, it's the worst."

"What do you expect could be done if everyone cannot perform to their expected levels each time?"

At that Jean suddenly smiled. To Scott's further astonishment she turned and left him. Scott bit his lips and closed his eyes in exasperation. He heaved a massive sigh and turned to leave the medical room.

Instead he turned around and walked toward where Ororo's bed was. Everyone gathered there; Emma, Hank, Jubilee, Bobby, Remy, Jean and Logan, holding his stitched-up arm tightly.

Awkwardly he walked toward them and stood before them, feeling like a second-grader in front of the principal. After a long silence he said:

"I have something to say."

Disinterested looks were aplenty.

"I've been thinking…"

"Should have done it before," Logan remarked acidly. Jean elbowed him as Scott looked down.

"I've been thinking," he repeated, "about what had happened to all of you. To _us_. Out of my inconsideration I've put all of you in grave danger. I know I should have at least told you where I stumbled upon that piece of information but I thought I was way too certain that this information was correct." He paused, trying to look for a correct word. "I was conceited… yes. That's right. I was a **conceited** leader who led only a few missions and thought that was it! I'm fit to be the leader!"

Scott shook his head, his gaze downcast. "I recalled Bobby pointing out the obvious location in that info, but I did not listen to you. Logan, too, tried to tell me that it all was way too easy and something was wrong, but I dismissed it. And Hank, too, for the discrepancy of those information with the real data…"

Scott paused again. He looked up at them, not asking for anything, but simply looking at them. "I could go on and on pointing about your warnings and how I dismissed it all, but now everything is too late. The damage is done. I can do nothing to ease your pain or pains, or about your damaged pride." He closed his eyes. "If my words should not suffice, I'm ready to step down."

That caused a stir amongst them, but briefly. Scott expected something nasty from Remy, or Logan's usual one-line remarks that never failed to get under his skin for hours, or Bobby's comic retorts…

There was nothing forthcoming. He nodded briefly at them. A smile spread across his face, but to them it looked like a pasted expression. "Well, that's it, right?" He ran a nervous hand through his hair and turned around and stepped out of the room.

Jubilee, after Scott had disappeared through the door, limped with her crutches out of the room after him. She returned later with Scott's visor and shirt uniform in one hand, staring at the rest of them in a disbelieving sort of way.

"He's gone," she said, her voice as hollow as everyone's mind right now.

  
******** 

_Translation..._

_mais oui: but yes_

_défailli: fainted_


	2. Fast Forward: Jean Grey

_We'll fast forward to a few years later,  
No one knows except the both of us,  
And I have honoured your request for silence,  
And you've washed your hands clean off this._

**Hands Clean - Alanis Morrisette  
**  
  


Battles fought.

Battles won.

Battles lost.

Trying to escape the truth had proved bitter to Jean. She wished she could influence herself to forget it all. But she knew better.

So she took the safer method: took a Sedan, revved the engine so loud that almost everyone looked out of their windows, and then sped toward the slowly opening gate.

She barely passed through it, but something in her jumped hysterically happy. That was close, she thought, but a smile spread throughout her face.

Throughout her journey to New York City the needle on the speedometer never went lower than 80.

  


Her red hair, which would appear shockingly red, was covered under a discreet simple hat. She had found a pair of shades in the glove compartment, and although ill fitting, when she glanced at a mirror she thought she looked gorgeous.

If I don't, she thought gleefully, I could always make people believe I am. So she walked down every street in the crowded city that was New York City - even walked down the Star Boulevard and read each star emblazoned on the surface. She felt happy, blissfully happy, like a child in a funfair and had just won every game there.

When she wanted to cross a road, suddenly she felt her shoes gave way. She fell to a side with a small exclamation, but enough to attract every passer-by. Looking down, she found the heel of her right shoe had caught in a grate and broken off.

"Damn," she muttered. And in the heart of the city! Couldn't be a better timing, she thought angrily. Helplessly she looked around for some sort of help, but everyone seemed to be busy walking or trying to walk out the person in front of him or her.

She decided to use her power… but wait. That wouldn't be fun. Another devilish smile appeared.

Quickly she pulled off that damned shoe and walked like a limping person across the street. Jean smiled all the way, feeling foolish and elated at the same time. And then people suddenly seemed to notice her.

This is better, she thought happily as she walked on the pavement before decided to take the other shoe off and walk barefooted. Although the surface was hot, she could stand it. Everyone was stopping now and then, looking at her, smiling, shaking their heads.

She was surprised when suddenly a man came from out of the crowd and said, "Miss, can I help you?"

The man was an average-looking man, but his charms quickly got to her. And his eyes were a strange colour, the colour of green ocean. His hair was tied at the back and long. Jean thought I've made myself this far, why not push it some more?

"Sure," she replied. "But," she lifted up the shoes to him "I doubt you can do something about this." She gave him a smile, which she got an even more charming smile in return.

"I ain't a shoemaker," he replied, taking the shoes from her hands and to her surprise he caught the lower part of her back and her upper back, so now she was completely in his arms; she whooped in delight and surprise. "But I know a good store here," he went on as he walked with Jean laughing in his hands, her legs swinging over his arms. "And I hate to see these feet suffer to walk."

By now people had stopped completely and shaking their heads in cadence. Some laughed. A few catcalled and laughed aloud. Then a clap began which grew to a thunderous applause. The man bowed, easily and Jean felt the power in his arms as his biceps bulged under his shirt, and he stood straight again. That added to more her already happy-drenched state and she laughingly held onto his neck.

  


The salesgirl walked away with a pair of shoes as Jean had wanted that pair but red in colour. "Thanks for the lift, literally," she said to the man. Both chuckled.

"No problem," he said. "After all, it's not everyday I meet a woman walking barefooted in New York City." He stared at her. "Well, I do meet folks like that, but usually they're crazy."

Jean laughed again. She could laugh forever with this man. He kept on grinding out joke after joke. "What made you think I am not?"

He shrugged. "You just don't look like one."

His eyes twinkled when he said that. Jean wondered and instinctively tried to search his mind. But she held back. "What does that supposed to mean?"

"Trust me," he said, rising from the small seat. "You don't want to know."

"Tell me." She rose after him, and only then she realised he was at least a head taller than she was. He was almost as tall as Scott.

_No, no, no._

"Oh, never mind," Jean sat back. The memory was too sharp, too close in her mind. "It's okay."

Perhaps he noticed her change, he quickly knelt. "I'm sorry," he said.

Jean tried to coax back her happy face. "For what?" She avoided him as she felt the face was faker than Pamela Anderson's breasts. "You have nothing to be sorry of."

He was silently staring at her even though she was looking away from him. Jean could feel his eyes went up and down, searching, searching. "Stop that," she said firmly.

"What?" he asked, humour laced in his voice.

"Looking at me."

"Can't help it," he said. One hand went up to her hat and before she could stop him her hair fell out like a soft waterfall, instantly framing her face.

She saw his face. It was like looking back into a mirror cast as if a thousand years ago though in truth it hadn't been barely that long.

_Scott and Logan had the same expression…_

Jean quickly grabbed the hat from his hands and put it back on. "You shouldn't do that." She rose and walked away from him. In fact she wanted to go back right now. Where the hell was this salesgirl? Was it so hard to look for a pair of red high heels?

"You shouldn't do that," he said. His voice was low.

Jean looked outside. It was getting dark, the street was lit up by streetlamps and brilliant neon and Jean felt comfort and happiness slowly dissipate. No… replaced, by something she thought only two men could evoke.

"Your hair is beautiful," he said, disturbing her thoughts.

"Thank you," she said flatly. "Now can we stop this?"

"I don't want to."

She turned her back to him and crossed her hands over her breasts. That hurt, but she didn't care. "It seems like you're clapping with one hand here, mister."

He moved toward her; she felt it rather than heard, because that instant his body heat was close to her back and she turned to face him, to talk him off. Ooh, she thought. Bad mistake, girl. BAD mistake.

She had firmly believed that he was an average Joe, but she had been wrong. His deep green eyes, like the wide tropical ocean, and as heated, were trained upon hers. The way his nose bent a little to the left, probably a relic from his past, made his face sinister, but his full lips softened the whole. His sharply defined jaw, lined by a few days' growth, was narrow and there was an almost invisible cleft.

In full he wouldn't have been in her list as a drop-dead gorgeous man, but this man totally redefined that list. And Jean wondered where to place him on that list.

"Are we both clapping now?" he asked, smiling at her. That was it; she acceded. That smile. Humorous and roguish at the same time. "Can I clap my hand with yours now?"

Jean had to chuckle; the thought of two people clapping each other's hand was ridiculous. She looked up to him and again reminded how tall he was. "I don't even know you," she said, turning to leave him.

He grabbed her hand with a small but firm hold. "There's always time."

Jean felt like a stupid schoolgirl; his hand, warm and large, made her skin break out in gooseflesh. "That's what I don't have," she said. "That's what I never have."

He spread his hands, like welcoming her into his arms. Jean resisted the idea. "Looks like you have it now," he said, one eyebrow lifted. "Can we start now?"

"I have to go back," she said quickly. This man was impossible. "HELLO! ANYONE HERE? I WANT TO GO BACK NOW, SO WHATEVER YOU DO BACK THERE BE OVER WITH IT!!"

She turned around to find him laughing. "What?" she asked angrily.

He had to contain himself a few times before he could answer. "Gosh," he said finally, "I bet you could make the next three stores hear that!"

"Serves them right," she fumed. "I only wanted a pair of shoes. What's taking them this long, anyway? Making a pair of it right now?"

"Probably you'll see two little folks jumping up and down out of the back room any time soon with your shoes," he said, arms crossed on his chest. "Tell you what, they always take it long looking for shoes."

"How do you know that?" she asked, curious. "You shop for high heels here?"

"Yeah, the ones with lots of rhinestones and those glittery stuff," he replied. "I'm a queen," he added, making a very good impersonation of one.

Jean smiled, and then finally cracked up.

  


"This is good. I never thought they are!"

She smiled. She had her shoes, red ones, just like she wanted. That was enough to lift up her mood. And his enthusiasm made Jean soften up to him. Soften up just a bit. Emphasize on a bit. Normally anyone she knew would rather jump off the Golden Gate than eat a whole set of sushi. "Well, now you do," she said as she tucked in into hers. "I always liked this stuff since we came from Japan - "

She had stopped. Again she was reminded of her past. Where she didn't exist but knowing what happened back then. And again two men loomed at the foreground, bigger than the events themselves.

"And...?" he trailed off.

She shook her head slightly. "I've been to Japan," she said lamely.

He pouted at his plate. "Well, I've been to New Jersey. Hello world!"

Jean had to stop herself from laughing, fearing if she did she would spit out the delicious tempura out onto the waiter's face that was taking care of something in front of them. "Lucky you," he went on. "The farthest place I've ever been was Alaska. To make matters worse I went there during the worst winter ever. I barely made it after the third week, eating only cod liver oil capsules. Some fool forgot to bring the can opener and neither of us had the energy to break them open."

Jean screwed her face. "That was awful."

He nodded. "Since then I hated anything in capsules or whatever that smelt like cod liver oil." He licked his fingers and started on the salmon. "But whenever the people who went on that stupid journey met with me we'd always laugh about it."

"So your bias towards sushi is explained." Jean nodded. "It's pleasant to have a bitter memory and lived to laugh about it afterwards."

Probably something in her tone made him stop dicing the salmon. He watched her carefully. "Don't tell me you've died before and forget everything before that," he said with humour, but in a guarded tone.

Jean dropped her chopsticks softly and drunk the sake. She refilled it and drunk another. He followed her hands like an audience who kept his eye on the ball during a tennis match. Finally she stopped. She felt her cheeks were burning and her throat burning.

"Yes," she said slowly. "I was dead. I met St. Peter but he kicked me in the butt out of the Gate. Said I'd create trouble in both Heaven and Hell with this body."

He stared at her dumbly. Then he chuckled. She followed suit. That chuckle grew into laughter that was outrageously loud in the small restaurant. Other patrons stared at them, both angry and curious.

"No," she said later when both recovered from the laugh. "I had nothing of that kind. Yet."

He ate the salmon, bit by bit and deftly handled the chopsticks, catching the small bits with ease. "Are you lying about this is your first time?" Jean asked, curious. Even Logan wrestled with chopsticks before he mastered them in about two weeks.

_No, no, no._

His defiant expression chased away the thought. "This is my first time," he said. "Eating Chinese has been a lifetime experience until recently when I learnt the wonders of microwave and frozen foods."

Jean's lips became a small 'O'. "Now you know I can't cook," he added, picking at the tempura. "Oh. Ladyfingers."

"You can give them to me," Jean offered.

He threw her a shrewd glance. "No way."

"I was being polite."

"No."

"Look -"

"No, no."

Jean slumped in her seat, crossing her hands under her breasts this time, though unconsciously. "Very well. Have it your way."

A long silence followed. Jean felt slightly tired, if not more than she allowed herself to imagine. Slowly she felt something floated at the corner of her eyes. Turning she found that particular piece of tempura hovering at the end of a chopstick. No, the poor vegetable was impaled by it. Jean stared incredulously at the ensemble.

"What do you think you're doing?" she asked.

"Oh miss, please eat me," said a high-pitched voice. "I have been bad."

"This is ridiculous," she said under her breath. "Stop it."

"I am the cursed vegetable. Eat me so I can die peacefully."

"I don't want to," Jean said, becoming angry. "Now come off it!"

"Help me…"

Jean was ready to scream angrily at him but he was faster. The next thing she knew the vegetable was already in her mouth, and he was staring at her with the most roguish smile she had ever seen. He held the single stick in place but unseen to the rest of the patron he was twisting it slowly so that the tempura ladyfinger spun inside her mouth.

"Like it?" he asked slowly. That smile was still on his face.

Jean only stared at him, knowing she should look and feel absolutely dumb, but something else came up from a pit in her stomach. The monster, uncoiling itself and had seen the bait, was ready to catch it.

"Now," he said softly that only Jean could hear him "I'm going to pull it out. Don't eat it; let it come out."

Jean was getting strange ideas in her head. The taste of the wasabi, tangy and spicy, was strangely tempting, hitting buttons in her mind and her body like never before. Again, only two -

_Stop it! STOP IT! I want now, not yesterday!_

She let him pull out the tempura and to both her surprise and perverted wonder he put it back in his mouth, obviously not eating it but only playing around with it inside.

Jean quickly looked away; the look in his eyes was devilish and innocent at once.

"It tastes sweet," he said, again that low voice meant only for her. She couldn't help herself but to look again at him. His eyes were smouldering green right now, a hot sea of dangerous high tides that could immediately drown her in it. "**You** taste sweet."

"Stop that," she whispered. She didn't believe herself to speak aloud. She felt she would scream instead.

He hesitated, and then she saw him swallowed. Somehow that made her shiver with forbidden thoughts. (Forbidden? Woman, you're old enough to think of dirty stuff!) To her surprise and relief - or disappointment? hard to tell - he smiled, this time that normal, charming smile. "What?" she whispered.

"Nothing," he replied. "It's funny, though."

"What is?"

He watched her closely, and Jean did the same in return. The light coming off from the table made a wonderful play upon his features. It highlighted and contrasted planes on his face, and Jean found herself wonder how would the light of moon play across his face.

"We've been from total strangers meeting on the street to here, and yet we don't know each other's name."

He said with such matter-of-fact that she found herself thinking back, making a mental backtracking. She allowed herself a small smile. "Yes," she said, and glad that her voice came out at least normal. "Wow," she added when she realised the full extent of their meeting. "This never happened before."

"Really?" he asked her. She nodded, thinking that it was more than that, this was also the first time ever (probably, she thought afterwards, there might have been time she did the same but totally forgot) she didn't use her power at all to assess someone's identity. "It's my first, too," he said, tapping his lips. Then his eyes widened in disbelief.

Jean gave him an inquiring look. He let out a whoosh of air before replying: "This is something."

"I won't want to know why," she said slowly.

"Some matters should be left to themselves," he said.

They both paused. Then: "Your name?"

They both asked the question. And they laughed.  
  
  
  
**THE END…?**


End file.
